


Shelter

by articulatez, TheDandyCrickette



Series: Birds of Prey [2]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Choking, Creampie, Dry Humping, Edgeplay, F/M, Flashbacks, Forced Oral Mention, Hand Jobs, Light Dom/sub, POV Alternating, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Rough Sex, Verbal Humiliation
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-05-15
Updated: 2018-10-25
Packaged: 2019-05-07 07:24:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 9,542
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14666187
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/articulatez/pseuds/articulatez, https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheDandyCrickette/pseuds/TheDandyCrickette
Summary: After escaping Gregor and Joffrey, Sansa and Sandor are on the lam together. Sequel to Fly Away.





	1. Chapter 1

Two weeks passed crammed into a shit motel after Sansa caved Gregor's skull in and Sandor whisked her away into the night. The clerk didn't ask too many questions and the room was dirt cheap, so they settled in against the storm. The hair dye transformed Sansa, even Sandor almost didn't recognize her afterward, and a shower and a comb did the same for Sandor himself. They melted out of sight.

Sandor took work where he could find it, mostly as a bouncer at bars. He came back to the motel smelling like cigarettes in the wee hours of the morning, always sick to his stomach with fear until he saw that Sansa was still there and still alright.

The former not-bride of Joffrey's slept long hours, buried in blankets that had taken on a mildewy smell, clutching a pillow to her stomach to shield her from the world. The shades were always drawn, the television always softly playing soaps in the background. She ate when he brought her food and she nursed whatever bottle he didn't lock up. They were friends; when awake, she learned card games from him, though they had nothing to gamble with but cigarettes. He did his best to hide the disapproval as the ashtray grew full, emptied, gave the room even more of a smell. Finally she left the window open but it killed her sleep. She held her legs and sat up and listened to the cars, giving a muffled shout when he came in the door. "Sorry," she said, sheepish.

The sound of Sansa's shout sent a spike of fear through Sandor's chest. But it was only because of him. She was still safe.

"It's okay," he assured her and bolted the door behind him. He set a heavy paper bag on the tiny table by the window and the air filled with the smell of chow mein and orange chicken. At least it was a break from cheap burgers. "I'm surprised you're awake," he commented.

"Hard to sleep with the window open," she commented, deciding not to ask how work was. She rarely did. At best it was dull conversation that she struggled to focus on. She got to her feet and distributed the fast food on plastic plates; each night before sleeping she scraped off the excess and scrubbed their version of fine china in the bathroom sink. Sandor got two eggrolls and a generous portion of noodles, while Sansa piled her plate high with chicken, and pork dumplings. Truth be told, she was starting to develop a belly from all the junk they ate.

"I hear that," Sandor agreed and munched down one of his eggrolls. He couldn't imagine being the one to stay locked up inside all day, he would have been much more irritable by now. He was glad that Sansa wasn't like him in that regard.

"They're combing ditches for you," he informed her, "but a ways from here." It probably wasn't much comfort to her but it meant no one had caught wind of them yet. Small graces.

Sansa attentively watched him eat and finish what he was saying and then retreated to the bed with her plate, seating herself cross-legged in her nest of pillows. All there was to do was eat, drink, smoke, and sleep, repeat. "They'll find me eventually," she said with grim certainty. "It's only a matter of time." She shut her eyes to say a silent prayer to the Seven, though the thought felt pointless. The gods didn't care about murderers.

Sandor swallowed the rest of his egg roll, then leaned back in his chair to frown at her. "Probably," he admitted. His chest felt cold even as he said it, as if agreeing might make it more likely. "Joffrey has to get bored eventually though."

She shrugged with a mouth full of chicken, looking for all the world a hamster with a carrot in its cheeks. With no one around but the Hound for company, Sansa had quickly forgotten most of her manners, existing more as an animal than a girl, and an animal mostly in hibernation at that. When she was done, she left her plate and fork on the table, idly stroking Sandor's hair as she passed him on the way to the bathroom. The door shut without locking; the shower started.

Sandor watched her get up and leave the room in silence. Their relationship had always been the opposite of normal but now even their stilted conversations felt odd. And more odd was how indescribably grateful he was when she touched his hair or his skin even briefly. He had thought her tough before, but after she killed Gregor he found himself truly admiring her.

Sansa's showers usually took time and Sandor couldn't help remember how her body looked when he'd dragged her into a shower with him weeks before. It felt like it had happened years before, not weeks, but Sandor clearly remembered how the water ran over and between her pert, pink breasts, down over her belly, and over her thighs. Her red hair had been so deeply vibrant when wet but he imagined the black was even more striking against her pale skin.

In the shower stall, Sansa sat with her butt on the floor and back to the wall, the water hitting the side of her body. The bruising she'd earned from Sandor's brother and Joffrey's friends had faded to soft green shadows and were no longer tender to touch or sensitive to heat, so the shower was cranked all the way to scalding. Sandor wore his hair in a bun now, a messy one with silky strands that touched to his cheek. She liked brushing at it with her fingers. He couldn't understand that his terse company was exactly what she needed in this time. It was almost like being alone. He didn't pry or push her to be more than she could, and presently that wasn't much.

In the other room, the thought of Sansa wet and glistening was having a tremendous effect on Sandor. With a sidelong glance at the bathroom door, Sandor loosened his belt and freed his cock. Living in such close quarters with Sansa meant he could only flush out the pipes during stolen moments like this.

He took hold of himself and got to work with well practiced strokes, focusing on the memory he had of Sansa's body. It was one of the few pleasant thoughts he had left and he found himself easily getting lost in it.

Sansa stood at the open door, the water shut off, a towel wrapping her torso, her hair quickly wrung into not dripping on the carpet. Sandor furiously fucked his hand, eyes shut, his cock so swollen it bordered on purple. She swallowed her hammering heart and watched until she had to say something. "Do you need to be alone?" she asked.

Her voice jerked him out of a crude fantasy about her and he opened his eyes with a start, hand gripped tight around his throbbing cock. His face was hot as he stared at her, unmoving. As much as Sandor fantasized about her walking in and joining him, he hadn't meant for her to see this. But he hadn't been paying attention when the shower turned off either.

Stunned and embarrassed, he adjusted his grip and said the first thing that came to mind.

"Not at all."

So that was how he was going to play it. Not as unnerved as he must have hoped she would be, she went to stand by his chair and looked down at him-- though he was so tall, even sitting it only meant a difference of a few inches. "Were you imagining me?" she asked. Before she'd killed his brother, he'd made no show of hiding that he wanted her... But he'd made no move toward her since. She laid a hand on his shoulder, fingers flexed into a gripping claw.

Her grip on his shoulder was so tight he nearly flinched. There was no graceful way out of this predicament so Sandor looked up at her and asked, "What if I was?"

"I'd ask if you wanted my help," she said. She rubbed at his shoulder, attempting at a massage. "Although I did wash my hair so if you could please not get anything in it."

His whole being ached as he looked up at her and her hand on his shoulder was definitely not going to be enough. His cock throbbed visibly in his hand, twitching in response to Sansa's offer. "If you don't want anything in it, you'd better put it away," Sandor told her, his voice thick with wanting.

She pulled dyed black hair back behind her shoulders and kneeled between his legs. His dick was in her face, an intimidating prospect; she would not let it cow her. "Give it to me," she said, sloppily licking the palm of her hand.

Sansa kneeling between his legs was a sight almost glorious enough to make him believe in the gods again. Her pale skin was still glistening wet. Sandor brought her hand to his cock and guided her movements until she took over.

Gliding her fist up and down, movements smooth and long, the heat in her grasp took her breath and suddenly she wanted him to take her breath, she wanted him to wrap his hand around her life. She gazed up at him, pleading, and lolled her head back, exposing her throat.

Sandor felt the request-- no, the command-- in her expression and he reached out his hand to obliged her. His crass fingers first stroked her jaw, lingering to run his thumb over her lips. Then he traced the line of her throat before wrapping his hand around it once again.

He'd read her eyes, her body language as easily as spoken words. Elated that he'd listened and followed through, she sighed, "Yes, thank you," and continued rubbing him, wrist and arm moving with a bit more snap in it, jerking him off towards her chest. She tugged at the towel on her with her other hand, exposing her breasts. It felt a powerful, simple motion.

His breath caught in his throat and Sandor tightened his grasp around her own so she could feel just what she was doing to him. Her tits were rosy and perfect and Sandor wanted nothing more than to throw her onto the bed and cover those perky tits with his mouth. He wanted to, but he made no move to do so.

The moment felt like something out of a fantasy. Sansa was on her knees jerking him off with his hand tightening around her throat; yet somehow he sensed she was the one in control. Sandor didn't mind that. In fact it made him harder and precum was already dribbling over her fingers.

"Oh," she sighed, voice hoarse, strained, at his base physical reaction. It shouldn't have had any effect on her after all the experience she'd had with various dicks and their various pricks. Still here she was, smiling, one hand clasping his knee and the other clasping his cock. That hand was smeared, dripping over her palm and wrist, and already tired, tugging hard. With her head leaned back, she lifted her eyes and forced them to stay open, telling him with effortless will and forceful breath, "Come for me."

Her words stuck in his chest like a hot knife. And it wasn't as if no one had ever told him to come before but this he knew was genuine. He could feel it in the way her voice hummed inside her throat against his hand. His body kicked forward at her command and he tightened with an astonished grunt. Thick cords of white spurted from the head of his swollen cock and splashed against the porcelain skin of her chest.

His cum trickled down her skin to gather in a pool along her collarbones, threatening to spill over onto her breasts. The impact and the sudden tightening of his fist on her neck made her see white for an instant, imitating orgasm. She peeled his fingers off, panted, and from her seat on the floor she felt high above him. "That was..." She couldn't find the words. The edges of her cheeks and lips tingled, affected by a passing numbness and warmth. "... I enjoyed that," she concluded, to her surprise.

Sandor let her peel his hand off her throat easily and he panted for breath like the hound that he was as he gazed down at her. She had given him something special, more than just an orgasm, but he wasn't quite sure what it was. "So did I," he told her dumbly.

She giggled, and that led to laughing. Wiping up the cum with the damp towel and smiling broadly, she rested her chin on his knee. "I've never... No one's ever let me be in charge. Never."

He smiled and ran his fingers through her hair. "It was pretty hot."

Sansa sighed. "It was. I'd like to do more like that." It was embarrassing to admit, that having the Hound obey her whim was as thrilling a thought as she'd had in a long time. "Does it appeal to you? Not just the sex."

"You being in charge?" Sandor asked and thought about it as his cock was falling limp. It didn't sound like a terrible idea. "I might be interested."

"Might?" she tested.

Sandor thought about it a moment longer. "I would be," he decided.

In a daze at that, she rose and found his cheek with her hand, the towel at her feet. "I swear I won't abuse you," she told him. "I said it before and mean it even more now."

The words would have felt patronizing coming from anyone else. But hearing them from Sansa made him feel good, good and calm. "I trust you won't."

 


	2. Chapter 2

She'd asked him to. Offered.  
  
Somehow getting into bed seemed the most daunting task, because he was in it, leaning into the headboard and watching the tv while she padded about in socks and loose pajamas, tidying up. The truth was, she was stalling. Even after she'd jerked him off, she was scared, shy. Sharing a bed would be a new intimacy. Finally, after brushing her teeth again to chase out the wine for steeled nerves, she slid under the covers, all the way down, peeping up at him with the covers to her chin and her head by his hip.  
When she finally crawled into bed with him, Sandor glanced down at her and moved to stroke her hair. "Took your time, didn't you?" he chided her. After her hand job he felt more comfortable with her than he probably should have. Of course he was grateful to be invited into bed with her, but the privilege didn't cow him.  
  
"Were you keeping track?" she teased, hazarding to rest her head on his lap, choosing to ignore his heavy hand on her head. It would distract her from the calm she was trying to claw from her brain. Bed had been safe. She was a stupid girl to let him in. Except she'd asked, for reasons that right now eluded her.  
  
His fingers found their way into her soft, now black hair. For some reason he always wanted to put his hands in her hair and now that he had it felt good and oddly intimate. "Yeah," Sandor drawled, "You stalled through all of Wheel of Fortune."  
  
Sansa inclined her neck, shaking her hair out for him to touch even though it made her strangely nervous. It had taken two different trips for the store for Sandor to finally pick up quality enough hair products for her. "I'm here now," she said. "Leave the tv on, please."  
  
"Sure thing, Kitten," Sandor soothed, though he did turn the volume down just a little. It helped him sleep too.  
  
Satisfied with that, she rolled over onto her side, for once not tucking her knees up to her chest. She did hug a pillow and squint her eyes at the wall, the Hound's breathing and the drone of the television quieting her thoughts.  
  
Sandor stroked her hair idly as he watched a Jeopardy rerun until he was close enough to sleep to sink down beside her on the bed. It felt weird, wrong almost, considering that the last time they had shared a bed Sansa had been his captive.   
But now they were something else. He wasn't sure what but it was different. And he felt calmer this close to her.   
  
Calm enough that as he drifted to sleep he wrapped an arm around Sansa's middle without a thought.  
  
In Sansa's dream, the world: a soft blur, ascending stairs, champagne flute in hand. There was music wafting from downstairs, a party that she wanted to leave behind. In front of her lay a darkened bedroom with muffled noises. When she turned on the light she saw herself kneeling on the floor, a man in a uniform spitting on her and slapping her with his penis. Her throat tightened, she gagged and her eyes flew open, she felt the arm tight around her and shouted in fright, body tensing up as if on a spring.   
  
"Stop it, stop," she begged.  
  
Her shout drew the Hound from his sleep with a start. He was upright in a bleary instant and bent over her protectively before he could get his bearings. "What? What's happening?"  
  
"Get off," she burst, shrinking in on herself and wrapping her arms around her chest, bowing her head. His weight was oppressive and horrible and she was scrambling to piece together what was happening and where she was. Not in Joffrey's bedroom, it hadn't been Joffrey's dick in her throat...  
  
Sandor reared back and away from her, the urgency in her voice making his heart race. He stumbled off the bed and fumbled for the light only to cringe when the room's dingy overhead light bloomed to life.   
  
"Kitten," he said, moving to kneel at her side of the bed but afraid to touch her. "Sansa. What's wrong?"  
  
Her eyes blinked in the light, then focused on him as understanding dawned. "I had a nightmare," she said in a small voice. "He was..." She moved a hand to her mouth, looking as if she might be sick, and her shoulders quaked with suppressed sobs. She knew where she was and that she'd killed. Sansa shook her head and sat up, hugging him tightly around the neck.  
  
At a loss, Sandor wrapped his arms around her and drew her in close. Seeing the girl he had come to see as an iron-willed lady in such a state of panic shook him to his core. "We're here now," he assured her.  
  
"I'm safe," she told herself out loud, fists in his shirt. She buried her long sighs in his hair. With each inhalation, each squeeze of cotton, each moment of his warmth seeping into her, she brought herself back from the nightmare. "I know," she said. "But I can't go back to sleep. I just can't."  
  
He took steady breaths to calm himself as much as to calm her and stroked her back. "I'll stay up with you," he told her. "Nothing'll happen to you."  
  
She nodded but didn't let go just yet. She shifted more fully into his arms and moved only to look at him, a sheen of tears in her blue eyes. "Thank you," she said, and brushed at his hair, traced her fingers over the unmarred side of his face.  
  
"Anything you need," he said gruffly-- a promise more than a question. "What can I do?"  
  
"Kiss me," she said; also without a questioning tone.  
  
For a brief moment he gazed at her, looking into her cold blue eyes. And then he cradled her jaw and kissed her intently. It was the smallest thing she could have asked of him but he kissed her with an unmistakable, if coarse, passion.  
  
She'd expected a soft kiss, that their first kiss would be dreamlike. His stubble scratched; his tongue demanded that he taste her. She tried to temper his lips-- though she loved how intense and wet his kiss was, so much more than her girlish expectations.  
  
Her mouth was hot and it made him hungry for her. Holding her tenderly, Sandor sucked at her lip with a slight groan and ran his tongue over her soft skin. Gradually his hands and his mouth drifted down her body to chase her cues. He peppered her throat with warm kisses and rubbed her thigh and her hip. She melded to his touch so readily that he figured he might as well chase out what fear he could with an outpouring of pleasure.  
  
Sansa directed him, dragged his touch everywhere; to grip her breasts, mould along her ribcage, squeeze her hips. Even over pajamas, it warmed her, made her attack him with kisses, grab him -- nearly forgetting to be careful of his burns -- and bring his mouth back up to hers, tasting and feeling his tongue. She had much the same thought as him: sex was a wonderful way to chase away her fear of... well, sex. Mindlessly, she dragged him over her on the bed and writhed underneath, hungry for contact.  
  
Sandor followed to press his weight against her. His knee settled purposefully between her warm thighs to make sure all her writhing got her something. His cock was perking up at the activity, especially at the heat of her parted legs. Hopefully she wouldn't mind his growing erection pressed into her belly as he kissed her with all the hunger of a half-starved hound.  
  
Rubbing up on his bent knee led to a wet spot in her underwear, warmth in her pajama pants. She sighed to keep from gasping and lifted a leg to lock around him, breaking the kiss to mouth his neck, let him feel her teeth. She was, after all, from a house of wolves. "Do you... Do you need...?" she panted, still bucking, inching her hand toward his hard-on between them.  
  
Sandor sighed and grunted. "This is for _you_ ," he growled against her throat. Her bucking made him feel intoxicated.  
  
That, right there, those words-- she bit down on his shoulder, hard, and shuddered. It was another minute, however, before she came, and when she did it was in silence, letting herself pulse and radiate pleasure and waves of heat. It was still obvious; her teeth must have left marks in him, her nails must have bitten into his arms, but he didn't stop her. She needed it. She grinned and kissed where she'd bitten down, soothing with a lick. "Thank you," she said, still not letting go, wrapped around him.  
  
The Hound's breaths heaved even after she finished clawing at him in her passion. She was animalistic in those moments and he found himself craving more of that side of her. He kissed her cheek as she clung to him in the aftermath of her orgasm.  
  
Sansa twisted over, onto her side, pulling him down with her. Sleep was much more approachable in concept after that. She brought his arm around her and told herself not to be afraid, not to wake up screaming at ghosts. Gregor Clegane was a ghost.   
Sandor was here, and he would take care of her in all the ways she needed.


	3. Chapter 3

By the time Sansa woke up, it was well into the afternoon, her mouth tasted like old carpet, and Sandor was gone for the day. It had been a kindness that he'd let her sleep in without waking her up for brief goodbyes, she knew that. He'd left the television on for her; the soaps were on, a buzzing distraction from a tension headache that set in as soon as the sunlight struck her eyes. To quell the throbbing, she reached for a bottle of vodka and mixed it into a splash of orange juice. She paced herself, sipping between nibbles of leftover takeout while watching heavily made-up women fight and sob for her entertainment. As the hours passed, her sobriety faded, leaving her sapped of whatever nervous energy she had woken with.  
  
The bar was so dead Mondays that by the time Sandor punched out he felt numb with boredom. He stopped by a 24-hour convenience store on the way back to the motel to pick up cereal and a few candy bars for Sansa.   
When he got back to the room and opened the door he could smell that she'd been drinking. "You awake, kitten?"  
  
His voice perked her up and she grinned, waving with the bottle in hand. "If it isn't Ser Clegane," she said sweetly. "I'm terribly sorry to have started the party without you. Can you ever forgive me?"  
  
Sandor stiffened by the door. "You know I'm no Ser," he said gruffly.  
  
"You could be," she said, getting up to go to him and inspect the bag of food. "Chocolate. You do know the way to a woman's heart." She pushed the door shut.  
  
He shoved the grocery bag into her hands and sidestepped her with a sneer. "There better be some left for me," he grunted and took the bottle from her as he passed.  
  
"Rough day?" she guessed, undeterred by his foul demeanor. She set the bag aside. "Let Sansa make it better." She shut off the light and found his shoulders in the dark, kneading hard.  
  
Her hands barely made it onto Sandor's shoulders before he shrugged her off. "Don't," he told her sharply before taking a drink straight from the bottle. It burned his throat and soothed some of the sting of being called Ser Clegane.  
  
"Sandor," she said, hurt. "You don't want me to touch you?"  
  
"Not when you're being a little cunt," Sandor snapped.  
  
"You know, most men would be thrilled to be alone in the dark with a willing... Cunt," she pronounced carefully, her voice wet and heavy.  
  
Sandor leaned back against the dresser that the television sat on. The light of the screen behind him only darkened his silhouette and cast moving shadows across Sansa's face. The scorching want in Sansa's voice felt like sharp nails down his back and in the same moment he wanted both to throw her onto the bed to ravage her body and to shove her to the ground and make her cower until she knew better than to mock him.   
Instead he only glowered at her and said "You still haven't outgrown that fantasy world of knights?"  
  
She wanted to shrink back, to cry and protest the callousness in his words. He did, however, have a point, though she didn't wish to give him even that much. The bed was easy to find in the low light and she sank onto it. It creaked with her slight weight and pressure. Darkened, he looked more an assassin of one of her childhood stories than any knight, or the rescuer he had played so far. It pained her to think perhaps it was only a play at all and, with the vodka still heady and hot inside her, it was hard to think much at all. "Would you really think less of me to think well of you?" she asked. "I won't do it anymore if it makes you hate me."  
  
Sandor scoffed. "I'd think you would know better by now," he sneered and drank deep from the bottle. "Gregor was knighted. They're monsters as much as the rest of us." He took a moment to watch her sitting before him before adding, "If you just want to get mounted like a bitch then say so."  
  
Thanking the darkness for hiding the angry heat rising in her cheeks, she clawed her hands into the bedspread and turned her head aside as if to ignore him. But he was impossible to ignore and it was impossible to fight the tide of feeling rising in her like vomit. Maybe being mounted was all she had to offer. She shut her eyes, a wave of lust falling over her. "Maybe it is," she agreed.  
  
He considered her for a long moment and then set the bottle down beside the television and stepped toward her. The drink was working its way to his head, softening the edges of the room. He tilted her face upwards to force her to meet her gaze, force her to see the rough lust in his expression.  
  
Sansa would not be a victim in this encounter, of that she would guarantee. She met his look straight on and lifted her hand to cup his cheek on the untarnished side. Her fingertips brushed his high cheekbones, his cheek and jaw where black whiskers were growing in, rough bristles on skin that was surprisingly soft.  
  
Her touch lingered on his skin for a long moment and Sandor sensed that she needed to be handled. With a grunt he stooped and wrapped his hands around her waist, then lifted and tossed her bodily onto the mattress. He hardly gave her a chance to recover before lumbering over her on his hands and knees and capturing her mouth with a heavy kiss.  
  
He was so strong it had her blood singing. She grabbed onto his shirt and tugged him closer, took handfuls of it and dragged up to reach his muscular back, drawing her nails down it. It didn't matter if he liked it. She was barely thinking about what he wanted. She broke the kiss to put her lips to his ear, then lightly slapped the side of his face and whispered for him to make good on his word. "You are a Hound, aren't you? Aren't you?"  
  
He jerked back when she slapped him and heat rose to the front of his pants. "More than you know," he growled, and yanked down the waistband of her pants before grabbing her hips and flipping her onto her stomach.  
  
The bed smelled like sweat and sleep when her face hit the mattress. She glanced back over her shoulder at him positioned over her. For as long as she'd been with Joffrey, she'd deadened herself to survive, and her sojourn in Sandor's old apartment had made her feel again, the good and the bad. Mostly it had been awful. Here she was, wanting to fuck, and grateful for that want. She grinned to herself and pushed her ass up.  
  
Sandor took the invitation to slip his hand between her thighs and combed calloused fingers between the folds of her cunt and up over her clit. He pressed himself against her ass to let her feel his erection.  
  
Sansa hissed and whined, angling her hips to try and get more attention to her clit. It was immediately obvious how wet she was when he dragged his touch down. She brought her hand to her mouth so she could bite down and muffle herself when he decided to fuck her. It would be on his time, not hers. And if he wanted to take his time... She would have to be patient.  
  
The way her hot cunt soaked his fingers made Sandor groan and he bent along her back to pull her dark hair aside with his clean hand and kissed her neck with scorching intensity. She wanted to get dicked down like a dog, so he'd be sure to bruise her scruff with his teeth by the time they were done. He coaxed helpless, intoxicating whimpers from her until he had covered her neck and shoulders with sharp kisses and she was a wet, trembling mess beneath him. Only then did he reach for the zipper on his jeans which were wet from her desperate wriggling against him.  
  
"Please, just..." Unable to stand it anymore, though she'd sworn to herself she would let him have control, the words burst forth in a desperate rush. She regretted it at once, somehow blushing harder, and grabbed at a pillow to bury her head in, to bite. The decision to move her hips up before had been a poor one, since she was now shaking with the effort of holding herself up and not simply collapsing prone on the bed and waiting to be fucked. Her cunt throbbed so hard with anticipation and need it hurt. He'd played with her to the point of dizziness so she shut her eyes.  
  
No sooner had she sunk into the pillow than Sandor crouched over and snaked an arm under her and lifted her up against his chest. He held her up as he freed his cock and then slid the length of it along her dripping cunt so she could feel its heat and pulse. His breath caught fast in his throat at the anticipation of burying himself in her. Clutching her tight, he yanked the pillow out of her grasp and tossed it to the side. He pressed his mouth to her ear as he lined the thick head of his cock up with her slit's entrance and explained with a hiss, "I wanna hear you howl, bitch."  
  
As soon as the words left his mouth he slipped into her grasping heat and hissed through his teeth against her skin as he sank slowly into her.  
Sansa couldn't help but do what he wanted, crying out wordlessly with the stretch. Her head hung down, her body limp, and she breathed hard and loud. Thankfully he'd brought her so close to climax before ever starting to fuck her that she was all ready for him, wet and pliant and eager. After a few moments of counting her breaths to be sure she still breathing, she willed herself to tighten the muscles below her stomach and clench around him. "Fuck," she groaned, and gave another cry for him. She had no idea it could be this good, or she'd have insisted he fuck her long before this.  
  
The way her pussy clenched down around him drew out a hoarse groan from Sandor and his hips twitched forward against her. The divine tightness of her cunt was dizzying. He clutched at her breast over her shirt as he held her tight and then eased himself back a few inches before pumping forward again. Driven by a raw, beastly lust for her body, Sandor scraped his teeth along her ear as he moved against her and before long he found a rhythm that satisfied his desire to hear her cry out for him, because of him.  
  
Sansa's tit, the one he didn't have a strong grip on, jiggled in her shirt with each thrust into her. He wanted to hear her so she made no effort to quiet her gasps and cries, hoping the walls would soak up the noises. The bed would be soaking up other things, but it was a little late to be worrying about that. His pre-cum must have been slathered inside her by now. Grimacing, she let a strained whine through her teeth and begged that way, pleaded without putting word to it that she wanted to cum. But she would leave it in his hands. He was, after all, obviously more skilled at this than she was.  
  
Her desperate keening was music to the Hound. What she wanted couldn't be more obvious, but Sandor wasn't about to give it to her so easily. Even if it delayed his own gratification. He pumped into her with heaving breaths until she seemed like she was about to unravel. Before she could, Sandor slapped an open hand down on her clit and slowed his movement to a stop.  
  
She yelped, grunted with frustration like a stalling car, and looked over her shoulder at him with a glazed expression. All the winding, building, writhing pressure had suddenly stopped short, leaving her reeling at the edge and anxious for him to start fucking her again. Her arms shook from their combined weight so she dropped onto her elbows and squeezed her palms into biting fists. Sansa lolled her head back down, having given him enough of a pitiful stare, sweat beaded on her forehead.  
Sandor panted harshly, chest heaving, and kneaded at her breast. He teased at her nipple, pulling and pinching to see what sort of reaction he could get out of her. That, and just to focus on her sweet tits instead of her pussy long enough not to finish. When he did move again it was with a deliberately cruel slowness.  
  
"Oh, Gods," she muttered, bucking her hips, demanding more and getting nothing back. This was the best torture ever performed on her by a man, and she knew already she'd be remembering it in moments alone for a long time to come. A particularly hard yank on her nipple made her wince loudly, the pain sending a spark down to her cunny.  
  
He groaned when he felt her cunt twitch and grasp around his cock. Her body was magnificently tantalizing and it took all his strength to keep from jackhammering her until he had filled her with his ecstasy. The thought drew another wordless moan from him, but he kept his pace measured even when he did speed up enough for each thrust to get a noise out of her. He let his hands pinch and squeeze at her tits and between her thighs and bruised her with kisses as he worked them both toward a climax. Several times he pushed her up to the very edge of release only to back off abruptly just long enough to prolong the torment. His cock throbbed painfully from the torture and he knew he would have to end it soon, but he wanted to dangle her over the brink of pleasure and show her what raw, maddening desire felt like.  
  
Sansa swore repeatedly, or what passed for swearing from a lady, chanting curses as he wore her out from the inside, manipulating her flesh from pleasure to pain to hate to some wretched, ragged existence where she existed only to want: want him, want him to hurry up and fuck her, want him to let her finish. Every time she came close she almost cried and shook, bucking her hips, and he would stop her with a slap or by forcing her to slow with a hand grabbing her, holding her close, not letting her move the way she so badly wanted. Both their hearts were pounding hard; she could feel it through their sweat-damp shirts, his chest to her back, his heart beating with the work of fucking her. It made her drunk in a different way.  
  
She followed his touch so well, Sandor was sure the experience would leave a lasting impression on Sansa. But even with his stamina he would have to end the torment soon. He grabbed her shoulder so he could pull her backwards onto his cock each time he thrust into her -- punctuating each movement with a throaty grunt. He began to build her up once again with his calloused fingers digging into her skin and his cock throbbing painfully inside her sweet cunt. But this time he didn't intend to toe the line between denial and release. He meant to make her cum harder than she ever thought possible. When the bucking of her hips and the desperate cries on her lips told him she was getting close, Sandor snaked his arm around her and grabbed her throat, clutching tightly.  
  
Darkness muffled her sight; his hand muffled her breaths and caught them tight. She couldn't do much except hold her mouth shut to keep from struggling to inhale, and in that strangled dark she felt it: her orgasm happened like an explosion, spine stiff and thighs stuttering to contain the force of it. Sansa moved herself back and forth, back and forth, her eyes screwed up and wet, hands clawing at the sheets and longing for skin, toes curled and ankles twisting back and forth, and she couldn't remember having ever orgasmed so intensely. Wrung and completely spent, she coughed and gulped without air, waiting for him to let go of her neck.  
  
The force of her orgasm reverberated through him too and he could not remember ever feeling so close to a woman he'd just fucked ragged. He managed to hold off his own climax just long enough for her to wilt in his grasp as her orgasm finally ebbed.   
He kept his hand closed around her throat as he rutted into her several more times until he came buried in her cunt and filled her with his cum. Only then did he let go of her neck so she could breathe. Panting hard, he eased her onto her stomach and pulled himself out of her before rolling onto his side beside her.  
  
Sansa caught her breath and twisted enough to curl into his torso, pulling his arm around her naked stomach. Tears and sweat caught on the corners of her eyes, so she rubbed her face into her sleeve, inhaling fabric, a respite from the smells of sex and sweat. "Fuck," she sighed. "I didn't... I didn't know... How did you..?" She brought his sweet-smelling hand to her mouth and kissed the knuckles. She was exhausted beyond belief.  
  
In spite of himself, Sandor smiled into her hair and inhaled her scent. He had to admit that he was proud of himself for how he managed to turn regal and composed Sansa Stark into a quivering, sopping heap. "Lots of porn," he told her gruffly and pulled her in close to him.  
  
She laughed at that and not at him and fell asleep in his arms almost at once. Some hours later, waking up both drunk and parched, she shrugged out of his embrace, tugged up her pants, and headed out for ice. It wasn't until she got back to the room and was drinking down a cup of cold water that her head cleared enough to remember; people pointing, a cell phone in her direction.  
  
She'd been spotted.


	4. Chapter 4

“You *what?*” Sandor asked when she roused him from sleep in a drunken panic. He was already on his feet and throwing stuff into a large duffel bag – clothes, money, a couple of the toiletries he had collected for Sansa. The jolt of fear sobered him enough to jump into action. “We need to get you out of here. Now.” He laid the bag open on the bed and pushed the contents to either side. “Get in.”  
  
She crossed her arms tightly and backed up a pace. "You are not stuffing me in a bag," she scoffed. Panicking inside, she watched his tension manifest into a whirlwind of furious motions. He was capable of rough action; the sharp, wet twinges between her legs were evidence of that. "I could go out the bathroom window," she suggested. To her, stunned and woozy, it seemed a good plan. Better to crawl out on her hands and knees than be caught a hostage.  
  
“You’d have to break it,” he retorted as he pulled on pants and shoes. “And it’s half your size. You’d be shredded.” It was a hundred feet to the car, give or take. They could be gone before the police arrived if Sansa would only cooperate. “As long as no one sees you leave we can buy some time.”  
  
"Sandor, this is stupid," she said, rubbing her eyes. The tears had crusted over into a sleepy film. "What about your job? What about all our things? Do you honestly think I'm going to fit into a duffel bag?" She stubbornly sat down on the edge of the bed, watching him hurry. A nagging voice whispered that this was her fault, and here she was dragging him into trouble again.  
  
He stood in front of her and fixed her with a look like iron. The job meant nothing, their things meant nothing. They had nothing left but their lives and each other, and Sansa was treading dangerously close to throwing even that away. “We don’t have time for this game, kitten,” Sandor growled. “Get in there on your back. Knees up, arms over your chest. I’ll do the rest.” He was a hairsbreadth away from grabbing her and wrestling her into the duffel himself. “Help me out here.”  
  
She could tell he was about to yank her down himself and was restraining himself for the sake of her dignity, whatever was left of it after he'd fucked her wobbly. Properly cowed and deferential, she surrendered and laid down inside the bag, tucking her knees to her chest. Luckily she was flexible, though it was still a tight fit. What really frightened her was when the zipper would draw out the light and air, leaving her jostled and surrounded by the smoky smell of their rescued belongings. Tears filled her eyes as she wrapped her arms in a funereal gesture on her breasts and shoulders.  
  
Some of the pressure in Sandor’s chest lifted and he could almost breath again. He thanked her with a wordless grunt and knelt over the bag. He paused for just a moment when he saw her face to tenderly wipe away a tear with the rough pad of his thumb and caressed her cheek. “It won’t be for long,” he promised her. The fabric stretched when Sandor pulled the zipper up over Sansa’s body and face but she was hidden and the lumpy shape of the bag didn’t look too suspicious. As calmly as he could, Sandor picked up the duffle bag and his keys and stepped outside, careful not to jostle Sansa much.   
  
There were only a few other guests outside but Sandor felt eyes all over him. He didn’t look around, only locked the room behind him and made sure to hang the Do Not Disturb sign as if he planned to return. And then he moved briskly down the cement pathway to the car that they would have to lose. The duffel bag went in the back seat where – once they were away from the motel – the tinted windows would allow Sansa some freedom to move. But it wasn’t until he was backing the car out of the parking lot that Sandor reached back and yanked the zipper open a few inches. “Don’t get up yet,” he warned her.  
  
She laid still, quietly shuddering in breaths even without a hand around her neck, her fingers digging into the muscle of her shoulders. While she'd been locked away from the world in a hotel room, this was a whole other element of confinement, one that made her want to scream and thrash. It's hide and seek, she told herself; the consequences were more dire than any child could dream up, of course, but she was a wolf, and she would make her den anywhere her Hound led her. The gentle thrum from the engine surrounding her and the distorted brouhaha from paparazzi and bystanders, the accouterments of clicking cameras, gradually hypnotized and inured her to her claustrophobia.  
  
Sandor turned on the radio – classic rock – and wound through the city streets until the cameras and the onlookers from the motel were far behind them. “Kitten, come out,” he called behind him. “You alright?”  
  
She immediately pushed the zipper down all the way and crawled into the front seat, conscientious enough even in her disarray to fasten her seatbelt and adjust the air conditioning. "No, I'm not alright," she snapped, forced herself to soften and take a breath, and said, "Thank you. That was cleverly done, getting me out of there like that." Sansa reached over to hold his knee.  
  
Unsure of whether to bristle at the way she snarled at him or to soften at her hand on his knee, Sandor only acknowledged her thanks with a grunt. “...You did well. There should be a change of clothes back there for you.” He risked a quick glance in her direction and tried to let her presence keep his mind from becoming mired in fear. He was still so unused to acting without direction. “We need a different car. And then we’re skipping town.”  
  
She rifled through the bag for a romper and shimmied out of her jeans. There were napkins at her feet that she used to wipe up the spunk on her inner thigh and then discarded, crumpled out the window. The change of clothes fit well enough with the top buttons undone. "Where in the seven hells are we getting a new car?" she asked.  
  
“The same sort of place we got this one. There’s a mechanic in the warehouse district who trades.”  
  
"I trust you," she said. "If that's the best thing to do, we'll do it." She leaned over to kiss him on the cheek. "My hero, my Florian," she said into his ear.  
  
Silly girl, still going on about her knights and stories after all of this. And Sandor unable to resist her, he was even worse. He wasn’t brave enough to tell her it was the only idea he had or that he wasn’t even sure it was a good one. At the very least it kept them moving. He covered the hand she had on his knee with his own and they drove.  
  
A chain link fence surrounded the warehouse and its operation. Several unsavory folks milled around a small table just inside one of the wide garage doors playing some card game as they ate lunch. Sandor made Sansa put on the large jacket he had in the backseat so she could cover her face with the hood before they got out of the car. “I’ll make this quick,” he muttered to her before approaching the group, “Hang back.” One of the men left the table to meet Sandor and in moments they were deep in a negotiation. The hairs on the back of Sandor’s neck stood on end as he got a better look at the place and the people running it. The sooner he could get Sansa elsewhere, the better.  
  
Sansa kept her curiosity at bay and her head down, her hands stuffed in Sandor's jacket pockets. It was comforting, surrounded by the smell of him. She could almost imagine he was wrapped snug around her, protecting her from the wicked world. Buried in the left pocket of his jacket, wrapped in cellophane, was a joint. The Hound had been holding out on her, probably getting baked while she slept. She clamped it between her front teeth and searched for a lighter but, sadly, came up empty. If this were a story, she'd fortuitously find a match and be able to puff in peace.  
  
"Need a light?" asked a woman, offering a silver lighter in her palm.   
  
Sansa smiled and said thank you before taking it. She held the lighter up in front of her face, turning it from side to side. A mockingbird was carved into the gleaming silver; a pretty bauble. The flame flickered with a snap of the lighter, orange and blue within, and she inhaled deep, letting the sharp musk fill her lungs.  
  
Then the woman was stepping close and said softly, "my lady, I'm here to rescue you."  
  
She turned to look at her in poorly concealed shock. "I'm no lady."  
  
"Your uncle sent me for you," the woman said. Her face was framed by a coiffure of curls, her jeans stylishly torn. Sansa was terribly frightened. Her uncles, Benjen and Brandon, were dead.  
  
“Does she work here?” Sandor asked the trader when he saw the broad approach Sansa. But before the man could answer, Sandor saw the flash of fear across Sansa’s face and his blood boiled. Fewer than a dozen steps closed the distance between them. He pulled the switchblade from his pocket and dragged the woman bodily away from Sansa.   
  
“What do you think you’re doing?” he snarled, blade pointed at her throat.  
  
She held up her hands in surrender. "Wait. I can help you," she said. "Both of you. I'm with Petyr Baelish and Lysa Tully."  
  
"Stop this," Sansa managed, hoarse, and touched his shoulder. "Lysa Tully is my aunt." Making Petyr Baelish her uncle by marriage.  
  
"Show him the lighter," she insisted.  
  
Bewildered, Sansa held out the lighter, the still lit joint dangling from the fingers of her other hand.  
  
Sandor lowered the knife and took the lighter from Sansa to examine the crest. It was Baelish’s mockingbird to be sure but Sandor certainly wasn’t. “How do we know it’s not a trick? Or a trap?”   
  
"We have transportation waiting for you," the woman said. "You could stay here and take your chances on the road, or you could let Sansa be with what's left of her family."  
  
He let go of the woman and looked to Sansa. The situation stank to him but his alternative was hardly better. And if Sansa trusted Baelish, of all people, he would follow her and protect her if need be. “What do you think?”  
  
Sansa hesitated, then nodded. "Let's go."  
  
The woman said, "There's a car waiting for you two outside the warehouse. I'll take care of this lot. When you reach your destination, that lighter will be your ticket in. Good luck." She sauntered past them, towards the card table. As they walked away, they heard her say, "Gentlemen, deal me in."  
  
Sandor grabbed their things from the car and escorted Sansa off the lot. Every muscle in his body was clenched tight with nerves that he was struggling not to show. He wished he could take the joint back from Sansa, he hoped that she would at least save some for him. They found the car and after taking a moment to size up the driver Sandor helped her into the back seat and sidled in beside her.  
  
The driver turned on the radio to the news, letting Sansa and her companion listen to all the latest on their little situation: that the last Stark had been kidnapped by Joffrey's former employee; the scandal; the gossip and the grasp at facts. With each new statement, Sansa's grip on his arm tightened until he was surely numb. After hours and hours of driving, and climbing a winding mountain road, they arrived at the bridge of a chateau settled in a snowy incline, the grounds shrouded in mist and uncertainty.   
  
A figure approached, fur-trimmed hood drawn to hide their face. Sansa shook Sandor awake and opened the door.  
  
The hooded man was there to hold the door open and offered her an immaculately manicured hand adorned with large rings. Sandor saw this as he opened his eyes blearily and lurched forward toward Sansa—but already she was out of the car. He quickly got out of the car behind her and stood to his full, broad-shouldered height only for Petyr Baelish to ignore him completely as he lifted Sansa’s knuckles to his lips to graze them with a kiss.   
  
“Allow me to be the first to welcome you to the Eyrie, dear lady,” the Lord Baelish told her with a sly smile pulling at his perfectly trimmed mustache. The Hound put a hand on Sansa’s shoulder, telling her without words that he was with her, and offered Lord Baelish the sort of sneer that would sour milk. “I can’t say we were expecting visitors.”  
  
"We haven't been introduced," Sansa said carefully, taking the lighter from her pocket and hoping she didn't still smell like smoke. She held it out with her best, practiced smile. "You must be my uncle."  
  
Lord Baelish’s eyes lit up when she presented the lighter with his symbol etched on it. “Ah, yes,” he said as he took the lighter from her. “I thought I recognized those Tully eyes. It was wise of you to accept my invitation. Your aunt Lysa is asleep but I would be delighted to make you at home here. There’s a room made up for you already.” At that point he did spare a glance for Sandor and with a tone of contrivance added, “I’ll have one made up for your… companion… as well.”  
  
"Thank you, Lord Baelish, you're too kind," Sansa said.   
  
Of course it wouldn't be proper for them to room together here, not when they were in the back in the company of civilized people. She'd been living like an animal. Already the motel with its takeout boxes and splashes of nudity was becoming an unseemly and distant memory. She fastened Sandor's coat around her and the three of them made their way inside, the Hound bringing up the rear. Leaving him with a hesitant "Goodnight" and passing back the snowy bundle of fabric to him, she followed her uncle to her room in the east wing. The bed was a welcome site, and she couldn't help but smile at the polished stone floors and the smell of a good clean. They had a staff that tended to the property, clearly. Even as she looked forward to a bath and then rest, she couldn't shake from her mind the sad look on the Hound's face of an abandoned dog, left out in the rain.


End file.
